Know Thyself
by 221b.tribute
Summary: When Sherlock is bored after a case, John gives him the ultimate challenge - deducing himself. The results are not what either of them expected. Semi-fluffy oneshot, some Johnlock.


**A/N: I recently got into the Sherlock fandom and figured I'd write some fan fiction for my second OTP. This is just a little one-shot set around the end of season two.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

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><p>"Bored," Sherlock muttered, stirring his cup of coffee that he hadn't taken a single sip from.<p>

"Right," John sighed, amused and irritated at the same time. "Sherlock, we just got back from a case less than an hour ago."

"But it was boring," Sherlock insisted. "The motive was so unbearably dull. And the methods were just so..."

"Sherlock," John chided. "It's not the job of serial killers to... to make your life more interesting." Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"Isn't it? What else are they there for then? So boring, most of them. If only more of them could be like the Woman, clever, oh so clever."

"Right," John interrupted. For some reason Sherlock mentioning Irene Adler rubbed him the wrong way. "Look, I know you're bored, but I'm eating. It's what most human beings do to not die. Why don't you just... deduce some people at the café or something?"

"They're boring," Sherlock whined.

"Well, I don't care," replied John, long out of patience for the consulting detective's constant need for action. "_Find _someone interesting." Sherlock's piercing blue-green eyes scanned the room and settled on a man in his mid-twenties at one of the tables seated across a pretty girl.

"There," he began, pointing. "New girlfriend, not their first date, probably, but second. Yes, it's got to be second, because they don't work together. She's a graduate student - look at the patches on her bag, John, it couldn't be more obvious - and he is a cashier at a smoke shop. No nicotine stains on his fingers, no patches, but he smells like cigarettes. I can smell it from here. And before you ask, it's not the girlfriend, she's got a relative who smokes. Smoked? Yes, smoked, probably died of lung cancer considering the look she gets on her face when she leans in closer to him. Anyway, the first date was clearly a disaster, she keeps glancing at the door and his hands are shaking. She was obviously unimpressed. Why? Oh, I bet he wasn't smart enough for her. Those thick glasses are new; he keeps fidgeting with them, and they're clearly not prescription. His hair is rumpled, but not as is he was up all night. He was fixing it too much before he got there, trying to look spontaneous. His watch suggests wealth, probably wealthy parents, but the buckle is worn. He's taken it off many times. Had a row? Yes, of course, that's why he's got to work in the smoke shop. He hasn't told her that, though, has he? In fact, look, she's asking about it now. And, oh, she's just realized she's not too interested. And she fakes a bathroom visit and gets up and leaves in three, two, one..." Sherlock snapped his fingers and, right on cue, the young woman stood up from her chair.

"People are so boring, John," Sherlock whined. "All motivated by ridiculous things, completely and utterly useless, marred by emotions-"

"Alright, alright," John cut him off, trying to stop Sherlock's rant before he went shooting walls or something. "Why not try something else? Say, have you ever deduced yourself?"

"But of course, John," Sherlock replied. "When I was a child it was just my parents - open books, I knew all their secrets by the age of two - and then Mycroft, who was much harder to read. I couldn't figure him out completely until five. So what was I to do?"

"You... you have deduced yourself?" John said in surprise. "Well, go on, then. What did you find?"

"Well, of course, it changes day to day," Sherlock said, already taking on the tone he used during deductions. "And naturally I'm biased towards the truth, but god knows I haven't done this in a while. Let's see. Any idiot could tell I just got back from a case, considering the mud stains on my otherwise polished shoes and the fact that I'm even here, because I never need to eat out when I've got you to do my shopping. Then there's my fingernails - chipped, because I was tearing up the flat in search of those cigarettes. Tell me, John, wherever did you put them? And, oh, let's see. I'm tapping my fingers, definitely a sign of boredom. And my heart rate is rather elevated at the moment, but obviously that's just because you're here so I'm experiencing a strong sensation of physical attraction..."

"W-what?" John spluttered, not sure he'd heard his friend right. "What was that last bit?"

"I do hate it when you interrupt me," Sherlock said peevishly. "I was saying that my heart rate is elevated because I am experiencing strong physical attraction at the moment, and..." He trailed off, realizing what he had just said.

"Oh," he muttered. "Did I say that?"

"Yeah," John said, sighing. "You did."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said, and without a word strode out of the café. John gaped at him for a few moments before standing up. His half-finished meal still sat on his plate; luckily it had been paid for by the café, so he didn't have to worry about getting the check. After a few seconds of stunned silence, John raced out the door after Sherlock to find that he was already halfway down the block and moving quickly.

"Taxi," John called, and instantly a black cab pulled up.

"Follow that man," he ordered, gesturing towards Sherlock.

"Had a bit of a fight there, mate?" The cabbie asked sympathetically, starting to drive.

"Oh, no, I'm not..." John began, and then stopped himself. "You know what? Forget it. Just drive, please."

The taxi followed Sherlock through the streets of London all the way to Baker Street.

"Thank you," John told the cabbie, and handed him a stack of bills. He took the change and then hesitantly walked up to the door. Sherlock was already in the flat, probably, at the rate he'd been going. John sighed to himself and scaled the stairs to 221B, where he found the door closed. He knocked.

"Sherlock?" he called, when there was no answer. Nothing, though John was sure he could hear someone pacing around. _Here goes nothing, _he thought and unlocked the door. Sherlock was making agitated circles around the flat, his hands pressed to his temples.

"Sherlock," John repeated. "Are you, uh... are you okay?"

"I'm fine, John." Sherlock's voice was surprisingly tense.

"Sherlock, about what you said," John began, "I just thought you should know that, um..." He paused, unsure of what to say. He had got so used to denying his feelings for Sherlock to everyone - Mrs. Hudson, Irene Adler, and nearly all of his past girlfriends - that it seemed ridiculous to even think of admitting otherwise. Yet he couldn't deny that his heart had done a little flutter when Sherlock had mentioned being _attracted _to him. It wasn't like Sherlock wasn't handsome. It was just that John was not gay. He'd never even considered it. He'd dated girls all through school, and planned on it for his whole life. He never could have imagined that one man - one extraordinary man - could turn his life upside down. He cleared his throat. After all, now seemed like as good at time as any.

"About what you said," John started again. "Sherlock, I don't mind... at all. Really."

"You don't mind?" Sherlock repeated, his eyes betraying a hint of sorrow. "So, what you mean to say is, is you don't... reciprocate any such... infatuations."

"No, that's not what I mean," John exhaled, closing his eyes. "Not... not at all." A silence hung in the air of 221B, only broken by Sherlock's resumed pacing. After a long time, John found the courage to break it.

"Could you at least just tell me what you're thinking?" Sherlock whipped around to face him, looking agitated.

"I meant to tell you, John," he said. "I meant to tell you the right way, not like some... idiot... with emotions... who makes mistakes. I don't make mistakes."

"Yes you do," John blurted out automatically. "Oh, I mean, not in a bad way. No, Sherlock, this is good. This is good that it worked out this way."

"So you mean..." Sherlock murmured, suddenly perfectly still. John rolled his eyes. Sherlock could be such a drama queen sometimes. He thought maybe he should kiss him, but it seemed like too much. After all, this _development _was still quite recent. Instead, he walked over, took one of Sherlock's cold hands in both of his, and gave it a squeeze.

"Yes, you bloody idiot," he muttered. "That is exactly what I mean."


End file.
